


The *Art* of Seduction

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Artists, Artists AU, F/M, not exactly pwp but...close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is more than a bit nervous for the live model week in art class -- and even more so when the model (who, by the way, is posing nude) is a gorgeous photography student named Jemma. But there's some kind of undeniable connection and things get heated... </p><p>(I'm trash. There are no excuses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not going to be a work of art (I AM SO HYSTERICALLY FUNNY) and is kind of a throwaway smutty thing that wouldn't leave me alone, lol. Thanks to chinese-bakery for indulging my annoying messages. 
> 
> Three chapters planned! 
> 
> This chapter's probably more M than E but fair warning this is decidedly a smutty story with lots of nudity so if that's not your thing, steer clear! :)

Fitz had been dreading this week all semester. Portraits, hands, still-life, landscapes -- those he could handle. But a real, live,  _ naked  _ person? Blech.

He hurried into the classroom, late on purpose, and kept his head down as he unpacked his brushes and chalks. His art classes were supposed to be  _ safe _ , places he could indulge his creativity and expand his techniques. He hadn’t planned on being up several nights in a row, racked with terror that his hands would shake so badly that all the other students would think he was a virgin and a prude and would tease him mercilessly.

_ Some things never change _ , he thought gloomily. 

The other students milled about, taking no notice of him, until the teacher called for order and sent them to their easels.

“Good morning, everyone!” Mr. Sederov said pompously. “As promised, we are to begin working with live models. We are fortunate to have with us this week another student from the college, Miss Jenna Simmons--”

“Jemma,” the young woman corrected him, stepping out from behind him. She was shorter than Fitz would have expected for a model, though still strikingly pretty. He thought they’d possibly had a class or two together, though they’d certainly never spoken. She glanced around at them all with a slight smile, and Fitz looked away as their eyes met.

“Jemma, of course. Whenever you’re ready--” Sederov gestured to the podium in the middle of the room and backed away.

The woman -- Jemma -- strode to the middle of the room and, apparently without a scrap of self-consciousness, pulled her dress over her head and let it fall in a pool of fabric on the floor. Fitz looked away, fiddling with the bristles of his favorite paint brush, as the other students tittered.  _ Bloody perverts _ , he thought viciously, trying hard not to listen to the snap of a bra being undone or the swish of undergarments sliding over bare skin and hitting the floor.

All too soon came the rustle of brushes and pencils lifted, sketches started, and Fitz couldn’t avoid looking up any longer.

Jemma -- very pale, very freckly, and very, very naked -- was stretched out on the podium, hands propped behind her, one knee pulled towards her chest. The other leg stretched straight out and Fitz could see...well,  _ everything _ .

He swallowed hard and scrambled for his pastels but sent the whole tray clattering to the ground. Markus, at the next easel over, snorted and leaned over to Arthur to whisper something, and when Fitz resurfaced, ears burning, Jemma’s eyes had flicked to him again. She smiled slightly and looked away.

Fitz decided to start with her head -- familiar, safe territory. He sketched out the soft jut and curve of her chin, the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the tumble of her hair over her bare shoulder towards her -- towards her -- 

He coughed and yanked his eyes back up to hers.

She was looking right at him. Why did she keep doing that?

_ Oh god _ , he thought frantically, busying himself adding freckles across her cheeks.  _ Did she see me looking at her b-- _

“Let’s take a five-minute break!” Sederov called, clapping his hands. “Can someone get Jenna -- Jemma, sorry -- a blanket and a glass of water?”

Every student in the class, except for Fitz, seemed to start running eagerly at once, several of the boys actually jostling each other by the water fountain. Jemma glanced at Fitz through the crowd of overly-helpful students and rolled her eyes. He grinned, ducking his head again.

Once he let himself get lost in his art, he found he could look at this gorgeous, naked woman without too much embarrassment. He focused on shading -- the shadows of her neck held hidden blues and purples -- so thoroughly that he was actually irritated when Sederov interrupted again. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Simmons, this is a bit of a strange request, but can you do anything about your -- well, your nipples? Markus said they’ve, well, changed since he first started drawing them.” 

Of course Markus had started with her breasts. Fitz glanced nervously at Jemma for her reaction.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Sederov, I can’t,” she said firmly, lips set in a tight line. “If you must know, it’s rather cold in here, and my body is merely reacting to that. Perhaps Markus should have drawn faster rather than lingering.”

Fitz wasn’t able to totally stifle his snicker. Markus shot him a furious glare, but Fitz frankly didn’t care.

All too soon, the class was over. Jemma stepped off the podium and put her clothes back on while the other students packed up.

Sederov stopped by Fitz’s easel. “Nice work, Mr. Fitz. But maybe tomorrow, move beyond the face.”

In the full hour and a half, Fitz had not managed to force himself beyond the dip of Jemma’s collarbone.

Behind him, someone chuckled, and he looked around to find Jemma regarding his canvas. As she brushed past to the exit, she murmured, “Paint me like one of your French girls.”

Well,  _ that  _ was intriguing.   
  
  
  


The next day, Sederov brought in a veritable horde of space heaters to surround the podium, the unfortunate side effect being that the students and Jemma alike were soon glistening in sweat. Which didn’t help with the whole focusing-on-your-work thing.

Fitz finally got his hand to trace the curves of Jemma’s thighs and the slope of her belly and the gentle rise of her small breasts. At first he’d felt terribly awkward, glancing up from her chest and finding her watching him, but then he realized she was  _ always  _ watching him. She studied him with the same intensity he was applying, except she didn’t have the excuse of creating a piece of art.

Hardly believing his own boldness, the fourth time he met her eyes, he raised his eyebrows and let his gaze slowly, pointedly wander down her body. When he looked up again, Jemma bit her lip, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t look away.

Sederov walked by and cleared his throat. Fitz jumped, realized he’d not painted anything in the last ten minutes, and blushed, holding his palette carefully over his lap.

“Sir,” Markus called, “her breasts are doing that thing again.”

Sederov looked at Jemma, who shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, apparently they have a will of their own.”

And she glanced back at Fitz.

_ Bloody. Hell.  _

  
  
  


On the third day, the space heaters became too much, so Sederov opened one of the windows. Fitz pushed down his complaints about the stupidity of the whole arrangement and concentrated on the details of Jemma’s fingers and toes and her sharp little ankle-bones.

At one point, a gust through the window blew through the room, sending pencils and brushes rolling across the floor. Jemma’s hair flew madly around and she reached up to fix it but Sederov cried, “Don’t move! We’re close now, we can’t risk you changing your position!”

Jemma slowly lowered her hand again.

“Can someone help Miss Simmons?” Sederov asked the class.

Chairs scraped as several people stood up to volunteer, but Jemma said quietly, “Fitz, could you do it?”

Everyone turned to stare at him. He gaped at her for a moment -- she’d only heard his name spoken once, on that first day, and she had no right or reason to remember it -- before setting his supplies down and crossing the impossibly long distance between his stool and the podium.

Jemma watched him approach and followed the movement of his hands as he tentatively smoothed her hair over from one side to the other and brushed strands down from where they’d gotten stuck on her face. He’d spent so much time studying her features from a distance that it was a bit surreal to suddenly see them up-close, to nearly brush her lips with his pinky, to actually feel the flutter of her eyelashes.

“Like this?” he murmured when he thought he’d gotten it back in order.

“I think it was tucked behind the right ear,” she whispered, as if there were some great secret between them.

He gently traced a line from her temple through her hair, down and around her ear, just barely making contact. He thought he saw, in his periphery, her stomach clench slightly, her chest rise a bit more quickly than it had a moment before, but he told himself it was just a matter of being this close to her and seeing details he’d missed.

“Thank you, Fitz,” she said softly as he stepped back to check his work.

He mumbled something and quickly retreated to his easel, wishing he could shove his face straight into the painting and hide there. Then he remembered what the painting depicted and that shoving his face into it would basically be pressing his face into Jemma’s breasts and legs, and he groaned quietly to himself.

This week was very confusing. 

  
  
  
  


Friday came too quickly and not quickly enough.

Sederov’s policy was that as soon as the artist considered the work to be as done as it could be, they could hang it up on the side of the room and leave for the weekend.  Fitz had finished his painting by Thursday afternoon but kept finding tiny details to add, tiny edges to fix, new facets of Jemma he hadn’t noticed the day before. It felt like they were sharing a private joke, Fitz studying her carefully, touching up the shadows under her knee, while she watched, waiting, knowing he’d be the last one there. 

Sure enough, at the end of Friday’s class, even Sederov had retreated to his office, leaving just the two of them. Suddenly it didn’t feel quite like a joke anymore, more like an impending meteor strike, and Fitz hastily started packing his supplies.

“Are you finished, then?” Jemma asked cheerily, rising onto her knees.

Fitz made the mistake of glancing over at her in her new position. “Uh -- hmm. Yes, I think this is the best it’ll get.”

She clambered down from the podium and pulled on her knickers and shorts --  _ not  _ that he was watching her. Shaking his head at himself, he crossed the room and hung up his finished work, stepping back to appraise it.

An electric warmth hovered at his elbow and he glanced down to find Jemma right there, right next to him, still pulling the edge of her shirt down over her stomach. She frowned up at the paintings.

“Do I really look like that?”

He followed her gaze to his own painting. He flushed. “Yeah, you do -- I mean, it’s not very good, but--”

“Stop, Fitz, it’s beautiful. That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Oh,” he choked out.  _ This is the part where you tell her she  _ is  _ beautiful, you dolt _ . Instead, he blurted, “So how did you get into this sort of thing? Do you enjoy it, or--”

“Sitting naked in a roomful of strangers? Yes, it’s a bit of a fetish of mine.”

He must have blanched, because she looked up at him and laughed.

“I’m joking. I’ve modeled for a few classes before -- it’s not exactly fun, but it’s a bit of extra money. I just grit my teeth and clench my cheeks and think of England.”

He laughed shakily. “That sounds terrible.”

“It’s not so bad, actually,” Jemma mused, bending to scratch her knee and colliding with his hip in the process. He put out a hand to steady her but let it hover over her back, unsure whether he should touch her.  _ She’s not a stripper, for god’s sake!  _ “I find that artists tend to become so absorbed in whatever they’re creating that they forget you’re a person. Not that they’re objectifying you, necessarily -- that wouldn’t be much better -- but they’re neither judging you or slobbering over you.”

Fitz was fairly sure he’d done quite a bit of slobbering and felt instantly guilty.

“I could show you if you like,” Jemma offered brightly.

“Sorry?” Fitz managed to squeak.

“I’m studying photography, when I’m not flashing my lady bits at poor painters -- if you’re up for it, I could photograph you nude and give you some pointers on being comfortable in that kind of environment. I’m actually a bit stuck with an assignment, you’d be doing me a huge favor. Not that you should do it for my sake, that’d be a bit strange--” She winced and rubbed one eyebrow. “Sorry, the etiquette of how to be naked and encourage others to be naked is a bit new to me. But I’m getting better at it.”

Fitz was definitely dreaming. Any lingering possibility that this was reality had just flown out the window.

“You want to ... photograph me ... nude?” he repeated slowly.

“Only if you want to,” Jemma clarified again, suddenly looking quite nervous. “I realize now what a strange proposition that is, when you hardly know me--”

“I feel like I do know you, though,” Fitz interrupted. They both blushed, glancing over at the wall of nude Jemma paintings. “Not -- not like  _ that _ \-- I mean, yes, like that too, but--”

“Fitz, it’s okay,” Jemma laughed, squeezing his hand. It sent a jolt all the way up his arm and into somewhere in his chest. “These things are a bit weird -- that never fully goes away. What do you say you just come to my apartment for tea this weekend and we’ll see what happens? If you feel like posing, we can do that. If not -- it’ll still be nice to get to know you.”

“Yeah?” Fitz asked dazedly, an involuntary smile lifting one side of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Not breaking his gaze, Jemma pulled a business card out of her wallet and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans, her fingers lingering against the fabric. “Text me.” 

 


	2. Photograph Me Like One Of Your French Boys?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still very much rated high M. Proceed at your own risk.

Fitz hangs up five times before he works up the nerve to call Jemma and set up a time for the proposed photo shoot. On the day of, he spends far too much time debating what to wear -- if things go as planned, he’ll not be wearing anything for long -- and turns around three times on the walk over to her apartment.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to do this. On the contrary, he’s been fantasizing about it all week -- rather vividly, too, with his mind (and cock) running ahead of him, wondering whether those heated glances from class were just his imagination or whether this is all a pretense for Jemma to get him into bed. God, he would not be complaining.

She lives on the fifth floor of an off-campus student apartment complex, so he has to wait nervously for her to buzz him in. His hand is so sweaty that it slips on the door handle and he’s really grateful that she’s not here to see him nearly fall backwards down the front steps.

By the time he reaches her floor his heart is hammering, and not just from climbing the stairs. He can’t even linger outside her door to collect himself because what if she looks through the peephole and sees him dithering around talking to himself--

She opens the door as soon as he knocks, suggesting she may indeed have had her eye pressed against it, waiting for him. The idea of her being that eager for him to arrive makes him flushed and excited and light-headed.

“Hi, Fitz,” she says brightly, beaming at him and stepping aside to let him in. “Glad you found it okay.”

She’s wearing black leggings and a dark blue top, which is further confusing in all sorts of ways because while she looks absolutely gorgeous -- the dark blue nicely complements her pale skin, brown hair and rosy cheeks (was she ever that flushed when she was modeling? He can’t remember) -- it’s not exactly the type of outfit you’d wear to seduce someone. Maybe he’s misinterpreted everything?!

“Can I get you something to eat? It’s just about tea time,” she adds, shutting the door and trailing him across the living room.

“I’m not hungry,” he responds automatically, looking around the apartment. There’s a small balcony that looks a bit precarious -- it looks out into a courtyard so she definitely wasn’t spying on him when he slipped out front, thank goodness -- and a tiny kitchen. There’s also a game console under the TV and if Jemma Simmons is a gamer he thinks he will be ruined for all women for life.

“Okay, then--” But Jemma is cut off by a loud growl from Fitz’s stomach. She laughs and puts her hands on her hips, looking at him sternly. “Seriously, Fitz? If you’re going to lie to me at least try to put in some effort to sell it. Why don’t I make you something? It’s not a trouble.”

“That’s-- that’s very hospitable of you, Jemma, but--” He searches frantically for an out but he finds nothing and lets his shoulders slump. “I haven’t had anything yet today,” he says, scratching his nose sheepishly. “I thought that was a thing that models did before nude photoshoots, so their stomachs wouldn’t, you know--” He makes a rounded motion as if to indicate he’s pregnant.

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma sighs, her expression quickly sliding from amusement to concern and guilt. “That’s not what this is about at all, you know that? It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a little potbelly or cankles or cellulite--”

“Cankles?” he repeats, glancing anxiously down.

“The point of this whole exercise is that society is telling you there’s one image of beauty but you should decide it for yourself. And  _ I  _ believe that being well-fed is beautiful and precious, so you’re going to eat whether you like it or not!”

“Right,” he mutters as she hurries into the kitchen. She sounds so  _ academic  _ about it all. Admittedly it’s probably for the best, in that it’ll allow him to focus on the task at hand before focusing on... other places he’d like his hands to end up. If she wants that too.

God, how does anyone actually have sex? It’s so confusing.

She sits and drinks tea and watches him eat. Fitz tries to offer her some of the little sandwiches but she refuses and makes sure he finishes all of them, which takes not nearly enough time, and then he’s sitting there, wiping his hands on his jeans, wondering how to get this started.

“Shall we go into the bedroom then?” Jemma asks, setting her cup down.

Fitz feels his eyes bug out of his head. “Sorry?”

“Oh, just--” Jemma gestures over her shoulder. “I have roommates, and they’re out right now but I don’t know when they’ll return, so -- I thought it’d be best if we just took the photos in my room.”

“Yeah, okay,” Fitz agrees, with more than a little disappointment, and stands to follow her.

She stops him with a hand on his chest, and he realizes with a shock -- and a twitch below -- that it’s the first time, other than some brushes in the art classroom, that they’ve touched. There’s still too much fabric in between.

“I don’t want you to do this unless you absolutely want to,” Jemma is saying very seriously, her fingers still splayed over a button on his shirt, her brow furrowed and eyes locked on his. “And I want you to know that I’ll never show these pictures to anyone without your permission. I’d love to use them for my project, of course, but don’t even think about that for now -- let’s just try a few and see how you feel. Really, you can change your mind anytime. These sorts of things are a bit precarious and can so easily turn into something dark and I just don’t want you to feel nervous or violated--”

“Why do I feel like we’re negotiating a safe word for BDSM?” Fitz tries to joke.

“We  _ could  _ use a safe word.”

“For BDSM?”

“For the photoshoot,” she scolds, smiling slightly, and he notes that she doesn’t outright reject the first suggestion.

“Ah. Erm -- that’s okay. If I get too uncomfortable I’ll just tell you.”

“You promise?” Jemma finally lowers her hand and tugs gently at the cuff of his shirt, a motion far too intimate for the conversation they’re having.

“Definitely. I’m rather vocal when I’m uncomfortable.” He thinks about this a moment and blushes. “Not -- erm. Sorry, that sounded like BDSM again.”

Jemma laughs. “You’ve got a filthy mind, Fitz. I like that.”

She pivots so her hair flicks his neck and flounces towards her bedroom. Fitz gulps -- her leggings leave  _ nothing  _ to the imagination, especially not since he knows what she looks like naked... Though only from the front... 

“Get in here, Fitz!” she calls, and he hurries to follow her.

Her bedroom is  _ small _ . He isn’t sure what he’d expected -- they’re both students, after all -- but faced with the sudden reality of very little space in any direction and the prospect of being naked and her there looking at him, through a camera lens or not -- and why can’t he tear his eyes away from the bed?! It’s wide and primly made and looks like it’s just waiting to be mussed up...

Jemma is fiddling with the settings on her camera, which has an intimidatingly long lens -- how much detail does she want?! -- but looks up at him, frowning. “Are you going to get undressed or do you need a minute?”

“Right here?” Fitz squeaks.

“Unless you’d rather undress in the bathroom and walk through the whole apartment naked and risk my roommates coming home mid-stride -- Daisy would love that, I’m sure--”

“I get it, I get it,” he huffs, and he grips the buckle of his belt but can’t seem to make his fingers cooperate.

Jemma watches him, concerned. “Are you sure you want to do this, Fitz?”

“I’ve got to, haven’t I? Can’t have you failing your class--”

“Fitz!” she exclaims, standing from her bed in adamant frustration, and he feels like she’s been scolding him with his name said in that tone of voice all his life. “That is so not the point here! You’re not doing this for me.” She pauses, then says slowly, “Would it help if I undressed as well? To balance the playing field?”

“No!” he nearly yelps. “That’s not -- that’s not necessary.  Erm...do you have any Scotch?” He squints one eye. “Or any kind of hard liquor?”

“You think being drunk will make this better,” she says coolly.

“Not  _ drunk,  _ necessarily, just -- just one shot to get me loosened up.”

“If it’s a matter of being loose I could give you a massage, or--”

“The shot will do, I think,” he says frantically. “Different kind of loose.”

She purses her lips but crawls across her bed, pushing her arse out a bit as she reaches under her bedside table. The parameters of their friendship (are they friends? Partnership. maybe?) are still dreadfully unclear so he’s uncertain whether he should look away or not.

“Do you drink yourself to sleep?” he asks, meeting her back at the edge of the bed as she pours a shot of something that smells terrible.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she tuts. “If you must know, Daisy’s boyfriend is a recovering alcoholic and I thought it would be considerate if I kept alcohol in my room instead of in the common area.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling like a jerk. “Sorry.”

“Bottoms up then.” Jemma clinks the neck of the bottle against his shot glass and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

Fitz throws back the shot and chokes on the burning liquor. He coughs and splutters and Jemma laughs, bouncing up onto her knees so she can pound his back.

“Jemma,” he wheezes when he’s got his air back, having decided to just jump straight into the question that’s bothering him, “what do I do if I get an erection?”

She just stares at him.

“I mean during the photoshoot,” he clarifies quickly, cheeks burning.

She still looks confused. “So what if you do?” Thank goodness she doesn’t seem intent on inquiring as to just  _ why  _ he might be suddenly turned on.

“Well, it’d be a bit...awkward, wouldn’t it?”

“It doesn’t have to be. I let you and a roomful of strangers paint my nipples when they were erect--”

“It’s a  _ bit  _ different -- though I’ll remind you you’re basically a stranger to me still.”

“Not for much longer.” She tugs one of his belt loops, grinning significantly, and  _ god  _ the erection is now no longer a hypothetical. It presses painfully against his jeans and he hides the resulting groan in the back of his hand as he pretends to wipe his mouth.

He makes to grab the bottle for another shot but she swoops out of the way, his arm grazing the top of her head instead.

“Nuh-uh, no more for you.” She rolls across the bed and puts the liquor away. “I’m getting the impression you’re a lightweight and I certainly don’t want you agreeing to something you wouldn’t approve of sober.”

“BDSM?” he suggests cheekily, because he’s made the same joke twice already without getting a telling-off and he’s just about ready to do anything to make her smile again.

She rolls her eyes. “Just strip, would you?”

“Turn around, then.”

“Fitz, don’t be stupid. I’m going to be staring at you naked for minutes on end, how can you be shy now?”

“Let me have my last shred of self-respect!” he says shrilly, flapping his hands at her until she huffs and turns to face the wall.

_ This is happening _ , he thinks wondrously as he starts to unbutton his shirt.  _ This is actually happening. Somehow I’ve been transported to an alternate reality and I’m in Jemma Simmons’s bedroom stripping-- Not exactly the scenario I would have imagined for myself, if I’d ever thought this would happen -- _

He knows he only met her a week ago but already he feels like he’s wanted her forever.  _ And this may go nowhere, and I’ll be okay accepting that and walking away _ \-- It might be the hardest thing he ever has to do and his cock might never forgive him, but if Jemma is really just interested in the art of it all, he’ll understand. She’s an actual  _ goddess _ and he’s a pasty little scrap of a human--

He shimmies his jeans down and kicks them aside, hesitates, then pushes his pants down as well, hissing as the air conditioning hits his exposed skin.

“I’m guessing that means you’re undressed?” Jemma chuckles, turning.

Instinctively, Fitz claps his hands over the area between his legs, which is a little challenging at the moment in his... excited state.

“Fitz,” Jemma sighs, crossing her arms, “that’s really not how nude photos work.”

Before he knows what’s happening she’s crossing the room and she’s _right there_ and she’s _reaching for his hands_ _and actually trying to pry his fingers away and that means her fingers are almost touching his--_

“Oi!” he cries, jumping back. “I said you could photograph me, not fondle me!”

“Sorry!” she snaps, moving away, hands raised. “I was just trying to help!”

He regrets his words instantly, because she can fondle him  _ any damn time she wants _ . She turns away again, grabbing her camera, and the hunch of her shoulders makes him certain he has messed this up permanently.

When she faces him, though, her eyes are narrowed, her mouth set in a smirk. “Besides, you only have one thing that’s considered private, whereas I’ve got three, all of which I bared last week--”

“Technically I’ve got three too!” Fitz protests.

“Yes, but they’re all wrapped up in one nice little package you can hold in your hands--”

“Little?!” he repeats.

“It’s Schrodinger’s penis, Fitz,” Jemma explains patiently, obviously trying not to laugh. “Until proven otherwise your cock is both little and not little, and I’ve got the right to choose to interpret it as I wish. And I say it’s  _ little. _ Unless you want to show me I’m wrong?”

She’s blatantly manipulating him with her stupid competitiveness and sass but it rankles nonetheless. He’s rather fond of his cock and that she has the  _ nerve _ to suggest it’s anything less than magnificent--

So he drops his hands.

Jemma’s eyes linger on his face for a moment, still bright with mirth, then they trail down his front. Fitz would swear he can feel them burning across his skin as they track down his chest and stomach and come to a stop between his legs.

Jemma turns bright red -- there’s no misinterpreting  _ that _ , Fitz thinks triumphantly -- but then she presses her lips together, trying not to smile.

“Find it funny, do you?” he demands defensively.

“It’s not that, I promise,” she assures him, still not looking away. (He hasn’t decided if he  _ wants  _ her to look away.) “I’ll tell you later.”

“So, uh, what now?” Fitz asks. He puts his hands on his hips but it feels too exhibitionist.

“Well, if you’re ready, and with your permission, I’ll start taking pictures.”

“You already  have my permission,” Fitz says, confused.

“Doesn’t hurt to check.” She glances around the room, biting her lip.  _ No, stop that, you’re not helping my situation down south-- _ “Where would you like to stand?”

“Uh, I thought you would handle that -- the artsy stuff--”

“Wouldn’t you rather decide what’s most comfortable for you?”

“I’d really be most comfortable if you’d just tell me what to do,” Fitz admits. “Get this over with.”

She smiles sympathetically. “You can say stop whenever, okay? You don’t have anything to prove to anyone.”

It is this constant repetition of gentle support and Jemma’s little tips about embracing his own body that let Fitz relax, finally. It’s still definitely awkward when Jemma clambers up onto her bed so she can shoot him from above, but she’s incredibly professional and focused and he can concentrate on that, on being impressed with her, rather than on his own nakedness.

What he has somewhat forgotten, however, in all the time he’s spent worrying about his cock, is how many other body parts he has -- for better or for worse. She has him turn around with his arse to her -- she calls it “perky”, for Christ’s sake --  she has him stretch to accentuate the muscles in his arms and legs and abdomen (which he honestly didn’t know he had), she has him sprawl across her bed and look sultrily up at the camera. They both giggle a lot during that one, Fitz mostly from nerves and Jemma because at the last second Fitz keeps pulling funny faces.

In fact, she orders him around quite a bit, and it’s maddeningly sexy. He wonders if she’d be equally turned on if he told  _ her  _ what to do for a change. It’s not exactly his style, but if it got her off...

“Let’s try this,” Jemma interrupts his thoughts, tapping her chin with a finger as she searches for more poses. “Put one foot up on the chair -- no, the other foot, so you’re not obscuring your erection -- and then put your fists on your hips--”

He starts following her prompts but freezes halfway into position. “That sounds  _ ridiculous _ , Jemma.”

“Come on, it’ll be funny!” she prods, bouncing pleadingly on the bed.

He grumbles but gets into place, turning his head slightly to the side so he can glare -- broodingly and hotly, he hopes -- at the camera. Or rather, slightly above the camera, at Jemma.

“There, don’t you feel powerful?” she clucks as the shutter snaps several times. “You  _ look  _ quite powerful.”

“Yeah?” he asks too eagerly.

“Yeah,” Jemma replies, just a tad shyly, and when she lowers the camera her eyes are hooded and his cock throbs once again.

If she doesn’t make a move on him soon, he’s going to have to start wanking right there in her bedroom, and he’s rather certain her professors will  _ not  _ be keen on those shots.

“That was great, Fitz, really great,” she says a few minutes later, clambering down and coming to stand next to him. His entire side tingles with her closeness and a fire spreads from low in his belly straight to the tip of his cock. Her arm brushes his as she holds the camera in front of him, flicking through the pictures. “See how comfortable you look in those last few? You made amazing progress -- and it really had nothing to do with me, or the photographs. Those were just conduits to the same end.”

“So I’m cured of all body image issues for eternity?” he jokes.

“Hmm, it’s not quite as simple as that, unfortunately,” she grins. “But it’s a start.”

As she turns away, he grabs his boxers and starts pulling them on, desperate to get to the bathroom and relieve his aching erection. Jemma hears the rustle, though, and spins back, grabbing his forearm so that he nearly topples onto her.

“What are you doing, Fitz? There’s still one thing we have to do.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm to chinesebakery for the encouragement!! 
> 
> things are about to get fun, folks. :P


	3. Say Cheese

_“What are you doing, Fitz? There’s still one thing we have to do.”_

 

_\---------------------------------------_

“There -- there is?” Fitz asks faintly, his boxers around one ankle.

“Didn’t I mention?” Jemma continues brightly, passing him to pull a tripod out of her closet.

_Why would she need a tripod unless--_

“The whole point of the art project is to normalize nudity. What better way to do that than to have two people naked together in what could otherwise be a compromising position, except nothing happens and they’re just friends?”

_Two people naked together_

_In a compromising position_

_A_

_COMPROMISING_

_POSITION_

_Except nothing happens??_

“You definitely failed to mention that,” he whispers, watching her set up her camera.

“Silly me. I’ve been a bit distracted.” She finishes and turns to face him. “If it’s alright by you, though...?”

He nods, unable to speak, and Jemma smiles cheerfully, then strips her top off and throws it on top of his pile of clothes.

“Right now?” he squeaks.

“Calm down, Fitz, you’ve seen me naked before,” Jemma chuckles, calmly undoing her bra and tossing that aside as well.

It’s true -- he _has_ seen her naked before, and stood even closer to her than this. But that was in a particular setting where she was _supposed_ to be naked, and he’d been fully clothed, and they’d been watched by dozens of his classmates so nothing could happen--

Whereas now they are in her bedroom and he’s already naked and _fully at attention_ and she’s got her leggings off -- apparently she hasn’t been wearing knickers this whole time and he bites his knuckle to keep from moaning aloud.

He’s seen her naked before, but she’d always held a very specific position, and now she’s turning her back to him and walking towards the corner of her room, her hair brushing her bare shoulders, her bum jiggling slightly with each step.

Every part of his brain is short-circuiting but he manages to get out, “What sort of... compromising position did you have in mind?”

“Oh, nothing outlandish or too risque -- that would certainly put my professors off, as liberal as they are.” Jemma turns to face him, seemingly unperturbed by his gawping. “We’ll just lay next to each other over here and act natural.”

 _Act natural_ , Fitz repeats to himself as he slowly crosses the carpet to her side. _Act natural_ . There’s a giant bean bag chair wedged into the corner, across which Jemma obviously intends the pair of them to sprawl. _Act natural. Because what could be more natural, really?_

He lowers himself carefully onto the far edge of the bean bag chair, grimacing a bit as the material touches his bare skin. “I think you’ll have to throw this out once we’re done.” _Bloody hell._ That _didn’t sound natural._

“It’s plastic, I can just wipe it down.” Jemma double-checks the camera and glances over her shoulder at him. “Make yourself comfortable -- I’ll set the timer to give us enough time for adjustments but once I sit down we’re committed. Ready?”

He grunts in response, scooting over -- almost falling off the side -- as she hurries back, body parts distractedly bouncing and swishing. She kneels on the chair first, putting her bare chest in close proximity to his face, then flips herself over.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” she scolds, grabbing his wrist and tugging him towards her until their hips are pressed firmly against each other. She snuggles slightly against his side, then lounges back, affecting a look of boredom. 

“Jemma--” he says warningly, because propriety be damned, if this is _casual and fine_ to her he’s going to have to say something.

“Relax, Fitz,” she sighs, jerking her chin towards the camera. “Just lay back and enjoy it.”

Oh he’s enjoying it, all right, but she’s stroking the jutting bone of his hip with her fingertips in what she apparently thinks is a soothing gesture, making her way across his lower belly, eyes on the camera to retract the second the light turns on.

“If this is your idea of getting me to relax--” he begins.

But then the tip of her pinky scrapes his erection and he scrambles to his feet, except the bean bag chair seems to determined to hold him and puts a hand on her naked, cool, _soft_ thigh to keep himself from tumbling over--

“I can’t do this!” he yelps, stumbling backwards into the bed in his desperation to escape her. “I can’t lay there and act like everything is _fine_ when you’re all ‘nudity is normal and nothing will happen’ but I’ve spent the whole day -- no, the whole bloody _week_ \-- thinking about more than that--”

In a blur of pale skin Jemma rises from the bean bag chair and veritably attacks him, her hands finding his face first, her lips colliding with his as her body follows, a heady mix of hot and cold against him, sending him back onto the bed. He doesn’t have time to question what’s happening, just grips the back of her head desperately and slides backwards towards the pillows so Jemma isn’t dangling off the edge.

There’s no tentativeness here, no games like they’ve been playing for the past hours, the past days. Lips part immediately and Fitz pushes up against Jemma’s mouth, sliding his tongue slowly along the tender roof of her mouth.

To his surprise, she whimpers and pulls back, pressing him down by his shoulders.

“Hold still,” she commands.

“What?” he breathes, confused, terrified this is about to be over before it’s begun--

“You had five whole days to look at me and get to know my body -- now it’s my turn.”

Fitz realizes she’s serious when she descends again, licking along the curve of his ear. He closes his eyes because the desperate agonizing _ecstasy_ of it is too much. He’s already panting as she supports herself against his chest, ghosting her lips over his hairline and down his nose and to his mouth again, where he responds eagerly, but she holds him down and continues.

He lets his head fall back against the bedframe, covering his eyes with one hand and laughing quietly in disbelief while he resists bucking up against her. This can’t actually be happening, but it is -- she’s running her hands down his arms and lightly biting his nipples and touching his protruding ribs and licking around his bellybutton-- Her fingers work around to his lower back and over his arse, just sneaking between his tensed  cheeks, and Fitz gasps, his hips lifting involuntarily as she touches erogenous zones he hadn’t known he had.

Jemma chuckles. “Hmm, maybe we’ll revisit that for later.”

It is only when Jemma’s tongue slides up the underside of his throbbing cock that Fitz’s eyes fly open.

“You don’t have to do that!” he says frantically, reaching for her.

“I know,” she assures him, nearly touching its tip with her lips but moving aside at the last second and letting her mouth fall to the crease of his groin.

“No, I mean, you don’t _want_ to do that.”

“Fitz,” she replies intensely, “there is not one part of your body I don’t want right now.”

“I--” _God, that is unfair, she can’t just say things like that --_ “I appreciate that but if you do, I’ll not -- we’ll not make it much further, for a while,” he finishes lamely.

She finally understands and grins, planting her hands on either side of him so she can drag her body along his, her nipples -- erect like those days in the art room -- scraping across his upper thighs and stomach and chest.

“Sorry about that,” she murmurs, accompanying her return with a kiss to his cheek so open-mouthed she seems to want to swallow him up. “I’m determined to commit every inch of you to memory, like a painting in my mind.”

“Then you’d have no need for the real thing,” he notes nervously.

“Well, that’ll never be true,” she whispers, finding his lips again, and he takes advantage of her preoccupation to flip them over, trapping his hard length against her stomach.

“It’s your own fault,” he chides. “I wouldn’t be this worked up if you hadn’t spent the last few hours taunting me with that fake art project.”

“Oh, the project was very real,” she giggles, turning her head to the side to kiss the wrist on which he’s propped himself up. “Though I don’t think I’ll be able to use any of the photos, you looked like you were _enjoying yourself_ a bit too much.”

“So you strung me along? You cruel little--”

But she kisses him and he’s more than happy to shut up, gliding his hands down her sides.

“You know,” he murmurs, pulling away just as she starts squirming to align their centers, “I haven’t _actually_ seen all of you, not really. Your pose in art class had...certain limitations.”

“Oh really?” she breathes with a mischievous grin. “Well, I’m all about equality--”

He rolls to the side at her gentle prods, though he stays attached to her by a hand. When she’s free, she stands, the mattress dipping slightly around her feet, and he follows the pull of her arm until he’s sitting below her. Her smug expression tells him everything he’s suspected since the first or second day of class: Jemma enjoys making him uncomfortable and aroused with her nudity and has no qualms exploiting that.

She rotates slowly, letting him look, _making_ him look, never letting go of his hand. He runs the fingers of his free hand over the cold bumps of her spine and down the roughness of her knees; he kisses her bum as it passes, hoping they’ll get better acquainted in the future.

“See, now, were all the games really necessary?” he chides, looking back up at her. “Isn’t it a lot more fun when we’re on the same page?”

“You didn’t exactly make it _easy_ on me, Fitz,” she replies, rolling her eyes as she keeps turning. He’ll stop her soon, before she gets too dizzy, but she seems to revel in his attention. “I thought it was obvious from the outset that we were interested in the same thing, but then you seemed so unsure that I tried to give you a way to work up to it -- or back out if you needed to -- and then I honestly couldn’t tell...”

“What, my erection didn’t tip you off?”

“ _Tip_ ,” Jemma repeats with a giggle, and Fitz groans. “I admit, that seemed to be a significant point in your favor...”

On her next revolution his mouth is level with the hair between her legs and he leans into it, inhaling first the smell of her stomach before exploring with his tongue, needing just a few passes before he finds her clit. Just because _he’s_ in no state to handle oral doesn’t mean he can’t help her enjoy herself...

But Jemma gasps and grabs his head, her fingers digging into his scalp. “Honestly, Fitz, can we save that for later?” she asks in a breathy whisper, her thighs trembling. “Right now I’d really like to--”

No further encouragement required, Fitz grabs her around the legs and flops her backwards onto the bed. He kisses up the side of her breast -- another area he’s desperate to explore when he’s not quite so, well, _desperate_ \-- and orders, “Stay here.”

For all his doubts and insecurities, he’d pocketed a few condoms on his way out of his dorm, and he scrambles across the room to his jeans, not even caring that he’s basically mooning Jemma now.

When he turns around, Jemma is taking up the whole bed, her knees raised, her legs spread wide open, one arm thrown over her head. She drags her bottom lip slowly through her teeth as she meets his eyes. “How’s this angle, Monsieur Artiste?”

He barely gets the condom on in time.

There’s certainly nothing artful about the actual sex. Fitz doesn’t last very long, and he apologizes profusely to Jemma, though she’s too busy laughing at his sex face to care much.

He shuts her up with his tongue thrust deep inside her, which is an effective method he’s more than happy to replicate frequently. She eventually  has to stop him just so she can catch her breath.

Laying beside her, Jemma’s hand lazily playing with his rapidly rehardening cock, Fitz blurts out, “Why me?”

“Hmm?”

“Out of all the guys in that class, most of whom were way hotter than I am -- why’d you choose me?”

Jemma snorts, her hand tightening briefly around him. “First of all, I’ve been trying to tell you all day that beauty is different for everyone and your standards of hot aren’t necessarily mine. But even given conventionally-accepted standards you were _easily_ the most attractive and most interesting man in the room.”

Somehow there’s enough blood left _not_ in his cock to rush to his face. “You’re only saying that because I just made you come three times.”

“Not that I’m debating the definite chemical after-effects of successive, excellent orgasms, but you’re wrong. I’ve been into you since we were in the same Art History course freshman year.”

Fitz’s jaw drops and he yanks his eyes away from her breasts to her face, searching for the truth. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not!” she insists. “I nearly backed out of modeling when I saw you were in that class, especially as you’d never responded to my message--”

“Hang on, what message?” Fitz interrupts her.

She frowns at him, letting go of his cock and sitting up to look down at him. “I asked Milton Burwick to tell you that I’d like to meet you for tea. I thought he could act as a liaison, I knew you two were friends--”

“Roommates,” he corrects. “Acquaintances by circumstance. Definitely not friends.”

“He never told you?” she demands furiously.

“Not a word.”

“I’m going to kill Milton,” they say simultaneously.

Jemma chuckles and swings herself across him to straddle his waist. “But anyway, I was very interested. I thought you hated me, obviously, when I didn’t hear anything that year, but then I saw your face that first day in class and realized you had no idea who I was. But you also seemed to like what you saw, so...” She idly traces the line of hair that runs down from his bellybutton. “I took a chance on it.”

“A chance?” he snorts. “You bloody eye-fucked me.”

“I was mentally undressing you, I admit,” she shrugs entirely unashamed.

“Hang on,” he says, catching her wrist. “Why did you laugh when you saw my penis?”

Jemma laughs and settles back, lifting said appendage between them. It twitches as Fitz watches the approving, predatory way she’s looking at it. “I had a fair bit of time in your art class to study your hands and make... estimations. I thought I’d be overestimating, but you still managed to impress me. Speaking of which, I think it's time you impress me again." She leans across the bed to the stack of condoms on her nightstand.

They forget about the pictures for a few hours longer. Jemma doesn’t submit them for her art project and at Fitz’s request deletes most of them, though he lets her keep a few for herself, less because he thinks it’s inherently a good idea and more because she whispers in his ear all the different ways she could get herself off while looking at them.

The photos of the both of them are mostly blurry rubbish, as the automatic timer went off around the time Fitz jumped up and Jemma hurled herself at him. They’re both silent a moment, but when Jemma tentatively suggests they try again sometime, Fitz is quite eager to agree.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well folks it's been a weird ride haha hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trash. There are no excuses. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr!


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